Lost Journals

I met him in a crowded restaurant. He walked right up to me and asked me if I’d seen the sunset the night before. I said no. He said he wished he could have shared it with me and that his name was Wilson. He kissed my cheek, handed me a slip of paper and seemingly walked out of my life.

I stared at the note all the while eating my grilled McChicken sandwich. On the piece of paper was written:

In your eyes I see a love of life

I can imagine you’ve faced much strife

Into my mind you twirled

You danced into my world

I want a place in your vision

Outside all of this derision

Away from this fast food

Call me if in the mood

641-555-5220

I pondered all the questions surrounding this impromptu poem. Who was this? How does one person have the capacity to disrupt my life so completely? Do I call?

In need of some time for reflection on my own, I drove and drove the back highways of Iowa. Music too loud, singing out of tune, speed too fast, life confused. Freedom: just another word for nothing left to lose.

Do I call? What do I have to lose? Do I not call? Why face regret? As I always say, I do not regret the things I’ve done but those I did not do.

I called from a gas station pay phone close the Nebraska border. The station had been closed for many years however the phone still worked in the rain.

“Hello,” a female voice answered.

“Hi, may I speak to Wilson?” I asked expecting it to be a joke or wrong phone number.

“Sure.”

There was a long pause as I removed the cold dripping hair from my face.

“Hello?” a male voice asked.

“Hi, my name is...”

“Alexandra,” he finished for me.

“How did you...”

“I met you once in a dream called high school.”

“Did I know you then?”

“No, but I knew you.” I was speechless. How was this happening?

He giggled a small sideways laugh and asked, “Can I see you tonight?”

“If I can find my way back to town,” I found myself saying before giving any thought to the question at hand.

“Come again?” he asked.

“I went for a drive and got lost. It’s not unusual behavior for me.”

“Well let’s say if you find your way home you meet me at the corner of north 55 Ave and Iowa Street.”

“There is nothing there but a bridge.”

“Wow. I’m impressed.”

“What time?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll see what I can do”

“Till then, goodbye Alexandra Conlin,” with that he hung up.

I stood there in the freezing rain staring at the phone for at least five minutes. What cosmic act of fate was causing this? In Colorado I was single and lonely. What kind of fucked up place was this? In Colorado men barely gave me a second glance. In the past three weeks in Iowa I had been overwhelmed with dates.